Closet Of Memories
by Jabberwocky92
Summary: After the attack by Loki, Clint goes to the only place his memories are safe, a closet in an abandoned New York warehouse. Hurt/angst/comfort. One shot. Uploaded with iPod.


The lights of New York filtered through the dirty windows, filling the abandoned warehouse with light, almost like artificial moon beams. The dusty floor had even more holes in it since the last time he saw it, a few more windows had been broken by teenagers and the weather, though it still held the warmth as well as it ever did. Up the broken and rickety stairs was the office, a room filled with only dust and memories, not even the homeless had ventured in to it.

But if one looked carefully they would see the warn path in the carpet, just hidden under the thin layer of dust that led to the closet.

Stepping carefully on to the thin layer of dust, he walked towards the closet, the floorboards creaked under each step, but they did not give out. To his left he could see a hole from where someone had put a foot through the rotten boards where they had missed the carefully planned out safe route. His concentration did not weaver, even as the sounds of the city rebuilding after the attack seemed to get louder as each second passed. Left, right, step to the right, hop one spot, spin around to the left and start walking five paces before turning to the right and going in to the closet.

Opening the door he was met with a familiar sight that made his heart beat a little faster. Nestled in the bottom of the closet was a pile of old, moth eaten blankets, all squished and piled up to form a nest, the indentation in the middle was the perfect shape for him to curl up in. Stolen nick knacks littered the indentation and the floor around the blankets, everything from a broken bottle he had gotten on his first mission to a hairbrush that had been left over at his flat after his girlfriend had walked out on him.

Behind the blankets, folded neatly in a garbage bag for protection laid his circus outfit, the worn material was cool to his touch as he ran a finger over the top piece, memories swirling in his mind as he did so.

The first time he had put it on, excitement filling his body at the knowledge he was now fully part of the circus.

The first time he had ripped the silken material he had nearly cried, cradling the fabric to his body and trying to mend it with will power alone. One of the other performers had taken pity on him and taught him to mend the damage before he was punished by the Ring Leader.

The stolen kisses behind the big top with the young tight rope walker, her purple hair always seemed to hold the sparkle of the dazzling lights to him.

The screams and the fire as the circus burnt to the ground as he ran as fast as he could, taking his only chance to escape as he clutched her hand, and both in costume they ran away together.

Next to the garbage bag sat a box, his army paperwork folded inside it neatly along with other important documents to him. The napkin that Alice Cooper had signed after he had done security at his concert, a piece of paper with messy handwriting on it from where he had taught the Strong Mans daughter how to write her alphabet, the letter from the tight rope walker thanking him for saving her that fateful night. Along with the paperwork there were photos, a battered photo of his parents, a photo of the performers at the circus, a few snap shots that had been taken of him and his first real girlfriend after the circus, snaps from the army (including one of him wearing a females uniform after heavy drinking) and a photo of him and his handler as he was given a new bow.

Through the scattered bottle caps, rubbish and newspaper were other important things to him. The arrowhead from the first ever arrow he shot, a pamphlet for the circus, a broken game boy colour and a small jumper that had belonged to him when he was a kid.

These were his memories, snuggled down in the nest with the closest door closed to silence the city that never sleeps he had started to call home. His memories where here, not in his head being extracted by force at the hands of an insane alien with a god complex. Not in the locker with his name on it located in the SHIELD base, or in the apartment he was given in the city. They were hidden here in the warehouse that will never be bulldozed, as long as SHIELD continued to protect it, in the closet nest he had created years ago.

Snuggling down in to the blanket nest, he pulled a worn, green blanket (his first blanket he was given in the army) over himself and closed his eyes. He had been unmade at the hands of the alien, his memories exploited and his abilities used against those he cared about. He had been the reason his handler was dead, the reason the attack had happened and so many innocents had lost their lives on the streets of New York.

But as the silence lulled him to sleep, surrounded by memories and nick knacks, Clint Barton slowly began to remake himself, and as his hand relaxed in sleep, letting the tie of Phil Culson and the metal scrap from an alien space ship tumble to the floor, his closet nest swallowed another memory.

The memory of the worst day of his life.

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**This is just a quick one shot I wrote on my iPod at three thirty in the morning, and thanks to the epic newuploaded for iPods you are getting it at ten past four in the same morning.**

**This uploader is probably going to be abused by me. So sorry for any mistakes and please review!**

**Jabberwocky. **


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